Accessory
by April7739
Summary: Desparation and depression for an AU Michael and Maria.  Read at your own risk.


**Title: Accessory**

**Author: April**

**Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, but the plot is.**

**Summary: Desperation and depression. Read at your own risk.**

**Category: Michael and Maria AU, ANGST!**

**Rating: Very Mature**

**Author's Note: Part of the inspiration from this story came from watching a movie called "Cherry Crush." It's not a bad flick. Check it out if you can. The other part of the inspiration came from a song called, "When Love and Death Embrace" by the group H.I.M. Wonderful rock ballad. Gotta love it.**

Chapter 1

The Murder

It all started 27 weeks ago.

27 weeks. That's a long time. It feels even longer. Time seems to drag on like a watched pot that never boils when you're constantly looking over your shoulder, wondering if you're going to get caught.

It's a horrible feeling.

We ran away on the 17th of June. Father's Day. How ironic. That was the day she killed her father. And that was the day I became an accessory to murder.

It's not as though he didn't deserve it. He most certainly did. Anyone who knew him at all knew that he was an abusive son of a bitch whose constant verbal berating caused half his family to commit suicide. Truth. Jim DeLuca was a horrible man. His wife, Amy, stuck her head in the oven on their fifteenth wedding anniversary because she couldn't handle living with him anymore. His eldest son put a gun in his mouth and blew his brains to kingdom come. His middle son, always the least favored of the family, drowned. _Accidentally_, of course. There was no way he would have forced himself to stay under the water longer than he should have just so he didn't have to go home and tell his father he did lousy on the SAT. No way.

In case you're wondering, that's me being sarcastic. Suicide is a DeLuca family tradition.

The notable thing is, Jim DeLuca never cared about anything like the SAT or wedding anniversaries. The only thing he cared about in his own sick and twisted way was his daughter, Maria. She was his youngest, beautiful by all means and smarter than anyone gave her credit for. It was common knowledge among the suburban community where we all lived that he abused her, mostly physically. Sometimes sexually. She never really talked about it that much, but we all knew. We heard the shouting and the screaming coming from the house. We heard the crying afterwards. For some reason, though, we didn't do anything about it until it was too late.

Maria and I were friends all throughout high school. Never really the close kind who are able to tell each other everything and know without a doubt that the other person will never hold that information against them. We were more the kind who had casual conversations, dated a few times, made out a few times. We'd never slept together, and I'd never tell her, but getting her in bed was my greatest ambition in life. She was just so gorgeous, and I could only imagine the things she could do to me, the things I could do to her.

We were unlucky enough to go to a school that was experimenting with year-round classes. I didn't actually hate it. It meant I got to see Maria almost every day of the year. One summer day after anatomy class, I caught up to her in the hallway. I remember exactly what she was wearing: jeans and a tight, black shirt. On anyone else, it would have been just ordinary; but on her, the outfit was _extra_ordinary. Maria elevated everything she wore. Always.

"Hey," I said. "Pretty boring shit, huh?"

"I'd say so. I don't even know why I took the class."

Even her voice was extraordinary. Low and sort of sultry. She didn't have to say complex or sexy words to sound seductive.

"So, what're you doing tonight?" I asked not at all casually.

"Why? You want me to do you?"

She'd caught onto my intentions. Dammit. "Wouldn't mind," I admitted.

She smiled at me, one of those radiant smiles that made me want to grab her and pin her up against the locker animalistically. "Michael, you're a nice guy," she said.

"But you just wanna be friends." Like I hadn't heard that before.

"I don't know. It's just . . . we've tried the dating thing before. It's never worked. What makes you think this time's gonna be any different?"

"Well, I'm much better looking than I was five months ago," I pointed out. And it was true. I'd hit the gym twice a day every day starting a couple of weeks ago just to bulk up and impress her. I still wasn't The Hulk by any means and never planned to be, but I knew I was more desirable than I once had been.

She blushed and finally caved in, and I remember that hearing her response seemed like one of the greatest moments of my pathetic life. "Fine. Meet me at my house at 7:00. I'm sure we can find something to do."

_House. Something. Do._ Those were the only words that registered in my mind, as various 'somethings' began to bounce off the walls of my typical male brain. Sex in her bed. Sex on her floor. Sex in her shower. I left school that day knowing somehow that this was the night I was going to bed Maria DeLuca.

Before I went over to her house that night, I tested out which shoes I could kick off the fastest. I skipped socks because I thought they were a waste of time. I put on my loosest pair of jeans because I knew I'd be unbearably hard by the time I knocked on her front door, and I threw on a t-shirt that she could tear apart with her bare hands if she wanted to. I really hoped she would.

I remember when she opened the door, what she was wearing then, too. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Nothing but a smile, anyway. It wasn't the first time I had ever seen her naked-she had a thing for skinny-dipping in the middle of winter, you see-but it was the first time anything like this had ever happened. Her eyes were so clouded with desire that I could barely tell they were green anymore. I knew that neither one of us had ever wanted anything else more than we wanted each other that night.

I don't know how we made it up the stairs and to her bedroom. It's all sort of a blur now, a beautiful blur. But before I knew it, she was on top of me and I was below her, and I was as naked as she was. We fucked over and over again, paying no attention to the time. The outside world no longer existed. She was the only thing I knew.

After the fourth time, we both lay on her floor tangled up in the sheets and in each other, both sweating and panting for air. As much as I wanted to go another round with her, I was exhausted.

"That was great," she said.

I chuckled. Understatement. It was the best sex I'd ever had.

"You should probably leave soon," she told me.

"Why? Is your dad gonna be back?"

"No, he'll be out late. Sometimes he just sleeps at the bar. It's like his second home."

"Home full of Hep C," I muttered.

She rolled over onto her side and looked right at me. I could see the green of her eyes now. Did she not want me anymore? Was she trying to kick me out?

"I guess we could fuck one more time. That is, if you're up to it."

I smiled. No, I wasn't up to it. But I'd do it anyway.

Knowing what I know now, I should have left then.

I got on top of her and moved fast, trying to get her off as quickly as humanly possible since I didn't have much stamina left myself. She clawed at my back, digging her nails into my skin, and dug her head into the pillow as she moaned my named. "Michael . . ."

I had never felt so incredible in my life, and I knew I would never feel this way again.

"Maria," I grunted as I thrashed inside her. I was close. So was she. "Maria."

"_Michael."_

"_Maria."_

Just a little bit more. Just a little bit and we'd both be there . . .

And that was the moment that my world came crashing down. Because that was the moment her father walked into the room.

"What the _hell_ is this?" Jim DeLuca roared upon seeing the two of us going at it. "What the hell you think you're doin'?" He shoved me off of her and back onto the floor with surprising strength, more than I thought an old guy like him could have.

"Daddy, we weren't doing anything," she said, even though we'd _obviously_ been doing something. Not only had he just seen us, but the room smelled like a whore-house.

"Don't you lie to me, bitch!" Jim DeLuca swung out his hand and slapped her.

"Hey, you leave her alone!" I shouted, clamoring to my feet.

"Michael, get out of here," she told me.

"No." I wasn't leaving her. Maybe I should have. Maybe she could have handled it better on her own.

"Just get out of here!"

"No!"

Her father grinned at me almost devilishly and said, "You think you can do that, huh? You think you can fuck my whore and get away with it?"

"She's your daughter!"

"Same thing."

So this was what Maria DeLuca had been dealing with her whole life. I suddenly felt guilty for never doing anything to help her.

"Dad, just leave him alone," Maria begged him as she wrapped the sheet around her body.

"Shut up!"

"Dad!"

"I said _shut up_!" He grabbed her arm and threw her against the wall. She collided with a thud and began to cry.

That was it. I charged at him and hit him hard, as hard as I possibly could. But it didn't seem to affect him. Maybe I wasn't strong enough, or maybe he was just too drunk to feel any pain.

I hit him again, and then I hit him another time, but nothing seemed to work. And then things really began to get bad when he started hitting me back.

"She's mine!" he yelled as he dug his fist into my face over and over again. "My bitch!" He threw me to the floor and sat down atop me to hit me even better.

Why couldn't I fight back? Where was all that strength I'd been building up in the gym? What would have happened if I'd just been a little stronger, if I'd been able to protect both her and myself?

I guess I'll never know now.

It hurt so much. I felt like my face was going to fall off. I could taste the blood in my mouth. I could see my vision clouding. I was going to pass out.

And then . . .

"Get off him!" Maria screamed and hit him over the head with a heavy metal flashlight she must have had nearby. The impact made him crumble to the floor beside me and gave Maria the opportunity to hit him again.

"I hate you!"

And again.

"I hate you!"

And yet again.

"I fucking _hate_ you!"

I turned my head to the side and looked at him through half closed eyelids. His eyes weren't open. He didn't even look as though he were breathing.

Oh no.

"Maria, stop," I said, struggling to my feet. "Stop!"

"You can't hurt me!" she wailed as she hit him again with the metal flashlight. "You can't . . ."

"Maria." I grabbed her, and she almost hit me, too. But she stopped herself and looked up into my eyes, her own eyes glistening with tears both cried and uncried. She dropped the flashlight onto the floor and fell into my arms, sobbing, and I held her tight. But as I was doing this, I looked over her shoulder, down at her father's body. His face was covered in blood. And the side of his head looked . . . smashed in.

He was dead.

There are moments in your life that decide who you are, how you live and what you do. In those moments, there are choices to be made, decisions between good and evil, right and wrong. Looking back, there were a million things we could have done differently. We could have pleaded self defense. It would have worked. I know now that we made the wrong choice. _I_ made the wrong choice. Because after she calmed down and we were able to talk . . . we decided to cover it up.

Chapter 2

Coming Undone

The first thing we did was wrap her father in a floor rug and haul him out to the car. It wasn't easy. Decades of drinking had given him quite the beer belly and made him a pretty heavy guy. Plus, Maria was shaking and she dropped her end a couple times. Her end. Her end of the _body_.

We stuffed him into the trunk of my car, because he was too big to fit into Maria's. Then we ran back inside the house and cleaned the blood out of the carpet. There was a lot of blood, all from Jim DeLuca's beaten and battered face. Yes, he deserved it, but we were still horrified.

Neither one of us said much. We just scrubbed and scrubbed at the carpet, scrubbed until our hands hurt, until our backs ached from bending over so long. There couldn't be any evidence. There couldn't be any proof that anything had ever happened there.

After that, we cleaned the blood off of the flashlight and tossed it outside in the trash can. Hopefully it would be sent to the junkyard and made into scrap metal. Hopefully we'd never have to see it again.

We got in the car late that night-or early that morning, depending on which way you want to think about 2:34 a.m.-and drove far out of town. Neither one of us really knew where we were going. I sat behind the wheel and turned left when she told me to turn left and turned right when I felt like turning right; and eventually, we found ourselves at a river, one I'd never seen before, one neither of us knew anything about. We figured that was a good sign, that if we didn't know about it, no one else would, either. It looked deep enough, so we lifted his body out of the trunk and dumped him into the water. Just like that.

We watched as he floated downstream, gradually sinking down beneath the surface. I looked over at Maria once, and the look in her eyes disturbed me. Because for once, there was nothing there. Blank. Empty. The shock of the murder had worn off, and now she just seemed . . . vacant. I remember that moment so clearly, because it was the moment that I should have known there was another path. That was the moment I should have jumped into the water, retrieved the body, and gone to the police. Everything would have been alright. I'm sure of it.

We went back to her house, and I cleaned out the inside of my trunk, just in case there were any blood spills. And after that, she stood on her front porch, the sun coming up directly behind her, and said, "Goodnight," as though it had actually been a good night. I waved goodbye, got back into my car, and drove home. I knew I'd never be the same again.

When I got home, my parents yelled at me for being out so late. It was almost 5:00 a.m. by that time, and I hadn't even called. They were good parents. Always protective, but I guess that's better than being negligent, or being abusive like someone in particular. They were really mad at me, of course, and they probably saw the haunted look in my eyes, because they got really worried about me, too.

"What happened?" my mother asked me in a panic. "Are you okay? Talk to us."

"What did you do, son?" my father demanded sternly.

_Nothing,_ I coached myself. _That's the answer you wanna give. Nothing._ "I just . . . lost track of time," I lied dumbly.

"You're damn right you lost track of time," my father roared. "Do you know you had your mother in tears? Tears, Michael. This isn't like you."

"I know. I'm sorry." And I _was_ sorry. I was sorry for so many things.

My father shook his head in what looked like disappointment, and I could only imagine how disappointed both he and my mother would be if they knew what I had done, what I had helped Maria do.

"Can I-"

"Don't even bother asking if you can stay home from school today, 'cause the answer's no," my father cut in. "You get your ass in the shower. Once you're done getting ready, you can do some chores, help your mother out for once."

I nodded, actually happy that my father was telling me what to do. It made it easier, because I myself had no idea what to do. This was the point in my life where I became a train wreck.

Much to my surprise, Maria was at school as well the next day. I thought maybe she would stay at home, come back tomorrow and tell the school secretary she was sick, but I was glad she didn't do that. This looked far less suspicious.

Suspicion. A.K.A: My new worst enemy.

We didn't say much to each other. Not in the hallway, not during class, not during lunch. What could we possibly say? How was your night? Do anything exciting? You look nice today? She _did_ look nice, which was amazing considering all that had happened. I looked as dead as Jim DeLuca. Maybe even more so.

For the next couple days, I didn't sleep much. A few hours here and there during the night. Nothing major. I was so exhausted, I could barely function, let alone do any schoolwork, so my parents finally caved and let me stay home Monday. I laid on the couch and watched old reruns of _Law and Order_ all day, watching how they prosecuted murderers, wondering how they would prosecute me.

At that point, I'd gone four days without speaking to Maria, and she'd gone four days without speaking to me. But she _had_ spoken to someone.

I'd heard through the grapevine that a police car had been parked outside her house for a couple of days, so I drove over to check it out, maybe diffuse any situation that might arise. But when I got there, she was already standing outside talking to a cop. I parked my car on the other side of the street, opened my window a bit and listened.

"Your father hasn't been seen in four days," I heard the officer saying. "Why haven't you reported him missing?"

"Well, honestly, I don't really care," she said. "My father and I aren't exactly buddies. Long history of abuse. Nothing good. Besides, I'm sure he'll turn up again sooner or later."

"Well, you let us know if you hear anything, see anything," the officer said. "We'll be in touch."

I saw the look of fear flash through her eyes, and I wondered if the policeman had noticed it, too. It definitely wasn't subtle.

Once the cop was gone, Maria wrapped her arms around herself and walked back into that house all alone. I found myself worrying about her, and I thought that maybe I should be more worried about myself. Maria wasn't my girlfriend. She was barely even my friend now, what with the awkward silences.

So I drove home and left her there alone. And when I got home, I had a nice surprise waiting for me, too. A big, burly cop of my own. He was sitting in the living room talking to my parents. Great.

"What's going on here?" I asked when I walked in the door.

My parents looked up to me, both with alarmed expressions on their faces. I could hear the panic in my mother's voice when she spoke to me.

"Uh, Michael, this nice officer needs to ask you a few questions."

"What kind of questions?"

The officer stood up and headed for the door. "Come with me, son."

We walked outside, and he asked me questions about my whereabouts on June 17th right in my own driveway.

"Now, Jim DeLuca was last seen leaving the Bison Pub on the night of the 17th. Bartender says he was heading home, made a big deal about seeing his daughter on Father's Day. Now, witnesses say your car was parked out front of that house from 7:00 p.m. well into the night."

"Yeah, so?"

"I just need to know what you were doing over there."

"It's private."

"Answer the question, son."

I sighed heavily. This wasn't negotiable. "I was with Maria."

"The daughter?"

"Yeah."

"And what were you doing?"

"Well, that's the private part."

The officer finally backed off of it a little. "I see. What time did you get home?"

"Around 5:00 in the morning. Why?"

The cop just nodded, taking mental notes to go along with what he was collecting on his tape recorder. "Did Jim DeLuca come home at all that night?"

I suddenly tensed and started to panic. Had he? Yes. But was that what Maria had said? They had probably asked her the same questions. We needed to have the same answers. Why hadn't we discussed this?

"I don't think so," I answered finally. "I mean, we were upstairs, you know. I wasn't really paying attention."

"Of course. Of course. Well, that'll be all for today. If you remember anything, find out anything, you bring it to me. You got that?"

I nodded. If I remembered that Maria had killed a man and I helped her cover it up, I'd tell him. For sure.

There's me being sarcastic again.

I got a long lecture from my parents that night about my bizarre behavior. I'd never been a really bad kid before. I'd done a couple things here and there, a few nights of drinking, smoked pot once, but I'd never let it go too far. They were really concerned about me, and I didn't blame them. I would have been concerned about me, too, but I was too busy being concerned about Maria.

The next day before school, I went over to her house. I knocked on the door, and when she answered it, she was wearing only a towel. Her long blonde hair was wet, and there were tiny droplets of water on her skin. A few days ago, the sight of Maria DeLuca straight out of the shower would have knocked me off my feet. Now, though, it barely registered.

"Sorry," she said. "I don't have sex in the morning."

"You know that's not why I'm here."

She sighed and opened up the door, inviting me to come in. I went inside and sat down on the living room couch, waiting for her to say something, because I still didn't know what to say. In the end, we just stared at each other wordlessly until we heard the sound of a special news report on TV.

"We interrupt your programming to bring you this breaking news. The body of Roswell resident Jim DeLuca has been discovered washed up on the side of the South Tesuque River by a local fisherman. Jim DeLuca has been missing, as you'll recall, several days, since the 17th, and officers can conclude now that he was in fact murdered. Early reports say that he was beaten to death, suffered severe head trauma, and the obvious question now is, who murdered Jim DeLuca? I have with me here Officer Jeff Davidson, one of the officers assigned to the case. Officer Davidson, do you have any early leads so far?"

I turned off the TV using the remote control when Officer Davidson, the man who had been so kind to pay me a visit, began to talk about how it's too early to say anything for sure. I looked up at Maria, and we both knew what was happening. Our not so carefully laid plan was unraveling, coming undone. The police weren't stupid. And we were.

Chapter 3

Mommy Told the Cops

The school brought in an official grief counselor that day to "comfort and console" Maria. She refused to go to the sessions, though, so they made them mandatory. Isn't that unbelievable, forcing someone to grieve? I can't imagine how uncomfortable it must have been for her. I wished I could barge into that office and rescue her from those sessions, but I couldn't do that. I could only pass her in the hallways and try to smile. But it was always more of a grimace.

For three days straight, Jim DeLuca's murder was all over the news. But on the fourth day, it wasn't. I thought it was over. I thought it was done. I should have known better.

On the fifth day, news spread throughout the community that the police had a lead. A small one, but better than nothing. Of course, the thought of any size lead made me shake with terror, but I hid it well. Maria was better at lying then I was, though. My parents knew something was wrong with me. I don't think anyone knew there was something wrong with her. Except maybe the police.

It was the flashlight. Our big downfall. We just threw it into the trash, thinking it wouldn't matter, thinking it wasn't a big deal. But it was _huge_. It was the murder weapon. It was what had killed Jim DeLuca. Why hadn't we paid more attention to it?

That fucking flashlight . . .

It was on that same day that I heard about the lead on the news. It wasn't just a small lead now. It was pivotal. The coroner had concluded after much examination that Jim DeLuca's skull had been smashed in by a heavy metal object no bigger than a baseball bat. The police, of course, jumped on that and headed off to the dump to search for something that matched the description. They found the flashlight, tested it for DNA evidence, and discovered traces of Maria's father's blood. We'd been so concerned with getting the blood out of the carpet that we'd been careless with the flashlight. They now knew exactly what had killed Jim DeLuca. It didn't take them long after that.

They went around to local stores and got records of everyone who had bought that exact brand and model of flashlight within the past year. It was possible that Jim had bought the flashlight himself, but the police were hoping that one of their suspects had purchased it. And one of them had. Maria.

They came to her house to question her that same night. I was there, talking to her, and I hated that fact. We didn't need to be associated with each other more than we already were.

"I can't believe you think I killed my own dad," she said to the cop when he questioned her. "Why would I do that?"

"You said yourself he abused you."

"Yeah. Nice of you law enforcement types to do something about that, by the way."

"You never reported it."

"Everybody knew."

I looked away when she said that, feeling guilty. I'd known for years, and I'd done nothing about it. Maybe if I had . . .

"Why'd you get the flashlight?"

"Because I'm scared of the dark." She shrugged.

"Did you hear your father come home that night?"

"Well, mostly I just heard Michael. He's a screamer."

I don't know how she stayed so calm. I was about to pee in my pants, and I wasn't even the one being questioned.

"Miss DeLuca, if you did anything or if you know anything, you need to tell me," the officer said sternly.

She sighed, looking exasperated. "Okay, I don't know what your deal is, but take a look at me. I weigh, like, eighty pounds less than him. I couldn't have hurt him even if I'd wanted to."

The policeman looked her right in the eye, obviously trying to get her to crack, and then he turned and glared at me. I didn't say anything. I looked him right in the eye and tried not to look like I was hiding something, even though I was.

He left without another word, and I was so relieved. I looked at Maria and said in a congratulatory sort of way, "You're a pretty good liar."

She actually looked unhappy to hear that.

For the next few days, the investigation dragged on. The police kept questioning Maria. They even called her out of class one day, dragged her down to the police station, and questioned her there. She was strong and she was careful, but I could see how terrified she was becoming.

"I don't know what they know, Michael, but they know something."

"No, all they know is that you bought a flashlight. They can't prove that one was yours. They didn't find your fingerprints."

"Yeah, one thing we did right. But what about our alibis, Michael? I mean, how stupid are we that we said we were right here with each other? I should've said I was at a party. I should've gotten my friends to lie for me."

"We're fine, alright?" I wished I could believe what I was saying, but I hadn't felt fine in a long while. Still, I felt the need to assure her, so I did. "Nothing's gonna happen to us. You and I are the only two who know what went down that night, and that's the way it's gonna stay."

I couldn't have been more wrong.

When I got home that evening, I found two cops blocking my driveway. My mother was on the porch crying, and my father was holding her in his arms.

"Get out of the car!" one police officer roared, practically pulling me out of the driver's seat with brute strength. "Get out of the car!"

"What-what did I do?" I stuttered, trying to act innocent.

The officer shoved me against the side of my car, pulled my hands around my back, and cuffed my wrists together.

"Am I going to jail?" I asked. "What's going on?"

"Open your trunk," the officer said.

"Read me my rights," I retorted, even though it wasn't the ideal time to be a smartass.

"Open the trunk, kid!"

What did they have against _me_?I didn't have a damn flashlight.

For some reason, I was really pissed. (Over the past few days, I'd grown to despise cops.) So I decided to keep being an ass. "This how you get your jollies, coppo?"

"Don't you fuck with me, kid."

"Language, officer."

And then I heard my mother scream, "_Michael_!" and I remembered what a serious situation I was in. They could know something about the murder. If they wanted me to open my trunk, I'd damn well better do it.

"Keys," I told them, "in the car. The long gold one should open the trunk."

The second cop reached into the car and yanked the keys out of the ignition. I still remember the smirk on his face as he jingled them in his hand and inserted them into the lock on the trunk. He opened it, and his face fell when he looked inside.

"What?" I asked. "You were hopin' for a body bag?"

"Shut your mouth, son," the cop who cuffed me ordered.

"Would you treat your son this way? You sick fuck," I muttered, fed up with this, fed up with life in that moment for some reason.

"Watch it."

"Hey, Joey, you better come see this," the cop looking in the trunk said. "It ain't much, but . . ."

_What the hell are they talking about?_ I wondered frantically. _I don't have anything in my trunk. Jim DeLuca's body a week ago, sure, but . . ._

"Stay here," the cop named Joey said, shoving me against my own car again just for good measure. He walked around to the back of the car and peered inside the trunk as well. He squinted his eyes and said, "Oh, yeah. That's what I think it is."

Blood. It had to be. I knew it with absolute certainty. I didn't have to, but I wanted to see it for myself. I wanted to see the other huge mistake Maria and I had carelessly made, so I started to walk back and peer inside.

"I told you to stay put," Mr. Nice Guy Joey said. He tried to grab me and shove me again, but this time I shoved my side into him, trying to push him away on instinct. I wasn't trying to get arrested or anything. I was just tired of being manhandled.

"Whoa, that's it," Joey said, acting as though he'd just been sucker-punched. "That's assaulting a police officer."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I roared.

"And you're clearly resisting arrest. Keep goin', kid. See how far down you can dig yourself."

I knew that was exactly what he wanted me to do, say something incriminating or do something stupid-more stupid than the things I'd already done-so I decided to just shut up and let them do whatever the hell they wanted to do. But even my sudden shift to good behavior didn't stop them from arresting me that night.

I think I'll always remember the look on my parents' faces, the unforgettable and heartbreaking combination of mortification and disappointment. I sat in the back of a police car, my hands cuffed behind my back, listening to the sound of sirens, smelling the smell of jelly donuts as the cops drove me off and away from my home. I was scared but trying not to show it. I didn't know what evidence they had on me. I didn't want to give them any more.

My mug shot was very unflattering. The orange jumpsuit they made me wear definitely wasn't my color. Whatever. I was more interested in Maria. What were they doing with her? If they had something on me, they had to have something on her, too. Didn't they?

My parents came to visit me when they were able to, sometime the next day. Monday. I was supposed to be in school. My mom mostly cried and held my hand through the bars. My dad said a few words to me, then went out into the station to find out what was going on. I listened to the bellowing words exchanged between him and the police commissioner.

"I don't care who saw what! I know my son! I know he didn't have anything to do with this!"

"Mr. Guerin, with all due respect . . ."

"Respect? How about some justice? You have no right to keep my son in here! You're relying solely on the testimony of a fourteen year old girl!"

A fourteen year old girl? I would later learn that a young girl had looked out her bedroom window during the middle of the night on the 17th of June and seen Maria and me lifting a body into the trunk of my car. She had been too scared to tell anyone until one day when she suddenly hadn't been.

"Now you release my son, or I _will_ press charges!"

There my father was, defending me, protecting me, and I didn't deserve any of it.

The drive home that afternoon was an uncomfortable one. My parents felt as though they no longer knew me, because they didn't. The person I was becoming was not someone they had raised me to be.

"Did you find out what they saw in my trunk?" I asked my dad cautiously, afraid that he would erupt on me like a volcano.

I watched his jaw tighten, and he replied through clenched teeth, "Blood."

"Blood," I echoed quietly.

"They're running tests now," Jim said. "They wanna see if it matches Jim DeLuca's blood."

"I don't know how it got there," I said. "Maybe it's just a stain. Or maybe the previous owner . . ." I trailed off and shook my head. There was no point. That was the blood of Jim DeLuca. I was going to get caught. There would be a witness testimony and physical evidence in my car. And Maria would be next.

I gave up hope that night. I crawled into my bed, wondering if I'd be lying down on a prison cot again the next night, knowing that my parents hated me, wondering how my life had done such a drastic one-eighty in such a short time. Most of all, wishing I could go back. I would have given anything to go back to anatomy class and fantasize about Maria. I couldn't do either one of those things now. My life was officially changed. It had been for awhile now.

I didn't get to sleep that night, which was probably a good thing since Maria came to my window. She threw some rocks up at it, cracking the glass, actually. She kept throwing until I opened it up and told her to go around to the front door. I'd let her inside.

We sneaked upstairs to my bedroom. A few weeks ago, this would have been one of the best moments of my life, having my fantasy dream girl in my bedroom and on my bed, no less. I would have made every effort to romance her and entice her and eventually sleep with her. Now I was too distraught to even talk to her.

She started by stating the obvious. "You weren't in school today."

I shook my head. Once they got the tests back confirming the blood was Jim DeLuca's, I wouldn't be in school for a long time.

When I shut the door to my room, she said quietly, "I've been watching the news."

"Good for you," I muttered.

"You were arrested."

"Yeah, it was real fun."

She sighed, and it was a sound of pure distress. "They have something on you, don't they? The news report didn't say much, but it mentioned something about a witness."

"Yeah, a fourteen year old girl. Saw us with the body, apparently, got all traumatized, told her mommy. Mommy told the cops."

"So that's it," she said. "We're done for."

"Yeah. Stick a fork in us." Our situation looked dismal. I didn't see any way out of it.

But of course Maria did. She was crafty. She had a brain that worked a million miles a minute, and no one knew anything about it. I could see it. I could see the wheels of her mind just turning, thinking, trying to come up with a solution for us that wasn't _too_ insane.

"You know how you said I was a pretty good liar?" she asked.

"Yeah." At that point, I didn't see where she was going with it, but when she spoke again, I did.

"Well, I'm a pretty good runner, too."

Chapter 4

Darker and Colder

Of course, Maria didn't mean she was some kind of track star. She wasn't by any means. She meant that she knew how to get out of dodge, to avoid the consequences of her actions when they came flying at her. I didn't know how to do that, not quite as well as she did, so I took her lead.

I packed up my things that night, just the necessities like clothes and food and water . . . and a couple of the pornos my dad kept in his "secret" box beneath the stairs and didn't think I knew he had. And that was it. I realized that night how simple my life really was . . . with one big exception. The murder. Other than that, other than that _huge_ thing, I really wasn't a complicated guy.

I asked Maria to wait outside while I said goodbye to my mom and dad. Of course I didn't actually speak the words out loud. What would I possibly have said to them?I thought about jotting down a short note telling them I loved them, telling them I was sorry, maybe asking for forgiveness. But that didn't seem quite right, either. Besides the fact that my penmanship was barely legible and my dad was literally dyslexic, it seemed too dark. People always wrote notes before horrible things like suicides. Running away wasn't as bad as suicide.

In the end, my goodbye was a simple glance into my parents' bedroom, wishing them good luck without saying a thing, hoping I'd somehow see them again, thinking that their lives would be better without me. They had to be.

And that was it. I shut the door quietly to their room and walked out of the house with a single duffle bag slung over my right shoulder, a frown on my face. This was without a doubt the worst night of my life.

I didn't glance back at my house as Maria and I headed down the sidewalk towards her house. I couldn't. We had to walk for awhile because she didn't have a car and mine had been seized as evidence, and we walked mostly in silence. I pinched myself a few times just to see if I was dreaming, having some sort of horrible nightmare in which I no longer knew who I was or who I wanted to be.

Maybe I never knew. Maybe I never will.

"I'll be right back," Maria told me when we got to her house. And she was. Even though she was bringing along slightly more items than I was, she'd had it all packed up beforehand. I figured running had always been her intention. I could see the determination in her eyes.

She got on the phone, made a call to a guy who seemed kind of shady, and arranged for him to swing by and drop off a car. He didn't ask questions. He didn't even ask when she'd have it back, so she didn't have to lie. He quite frankly seemed too stoned to care, and that worked out well for us since this was our getaway car and he would probably never ever see it again.

The shady stoned guy staggered off to the bar on foot after that, and Maria and I were left with the car, our luggage, and ourselves. She threw both her bags into the back seat and even tossed mine in for me, and I just stood there like a statue, trying to take it all in, trying to figure out if my brain was still capable of rational thought.

"Okay, let's get out of here," she said as she slammed the back door. She sounded enthusiastic. _Excited._ No, maybe not excited, but definitely not terrified. Not terrified like me.

She climbed into the passenger's seat, and I opened the door and slid into the driver's seat beside her. I closed the door slowly and quietly, stuck the key in the ignition, and hesitated when it came time to actually start the car.

"Second thoughts?" she asked me.

"More like third." I looked at her with complete seriousness in my eyes and in my voice and said, "You realize once we leave, there's no coming back? I mean, I hit the gas, and we're guilty."

"We're already guilty," she reminded me.

"But now everyone's gonna know it. Can you handle that?"

She stared back at me with that same seriousness and asked, "Can you?"

Yes. No. Maybe. I didn't know.

"Let's get outta here," she said. "I'm ready to go."

I wasn't, but I went anyway.

I drove for about an hour. Maria gave me directions to an old abandoned house out in the middle of nowhere. When I asked her how she knew about it, she told me that she'd gone to a few parties there over the years. She said it wasn't much, but it was dry. And secluded. That was all we needed, to be alone.

It struck me suddenly as I pulled the car to a stop outside the old, broken down house that all we had was each other, that we could trust no one else. We might be alone together for the rest of our lives.

Why wasn't I happier about that? Wasn't this girl supposed to be my fantasy chick?

She had been. Once. Maybe she still was. But everything was different now.

"I told you it wasn't much," she said in reference to the shack. "Oh well, though, right? We'll be outta here tomorrow."

"Where are we going?" I asked, happy to let her do all the thinking.

She shrugged. "I don't know. Sky's the limit."

"Really?" I found that hard to believe.

"Well, not _really_. But we could go anywhere in the world."

"If we had money," I reminded her.

"We'll get some."

"How?"

She shrugged again. "I don't know. We'll figure something out."

I sighed and rubbed my forehead, trying to remember a time when I'd felt this stressed and dealt with it. I couldn't.

"Look, Michael, let's just get some sleep and we'll think about all this tomorrow. Okay?"

It sounded reasonable enough to me. I was, as usual, exhausted.

We went inside the house, and I was so scared it was going to collapse around me. And there were rats. And mice. And spiders and all sorts of other things I always claimed I wasn't afraid of but secretly always had been. Maria didn't seem to mind. She brushed the cobwebs aside and said, "A couch, a throw rug, a couple of paintings . . . this place wouldn't be so bad."

I grunted. "Yeah, right."

"Seriously, this is how my house looked when we first moved in. If my mom hadn't gone off the deep end, I bet she really would've fixed it up."

_Gone off the deep end._ I didn't understand how she could refer to her mother's suicide so casually. I still can't, even now.

She sat down on the floor with her bag in front of her and started sorting through it for . . . something. I watched her for a few moments, wondering what she was looking for, and then she smiled and pulled a small plastic card out of her wallet. A credit card, I hoped, something with funds.

"Aha," she said. "Found it."

"What?"

"Fake ID."

I groaned, slightly annoyed. Was that really so important?

And then it hit me. _Yes._

"Yeah, you know it's a good idea," she said as if she were reading my mind. "You got one?"

I shook my head. "Nope."

"Why not?"

"Never needed one."

"Oh, I did. I got mine when I was fourteen."

"Why?"

"Well, how else was I supposed to get into those bars?"

I realized then that she was much darker than I'd ever known her to be. Had she always been this dark, or had the murder changed her into this person?

Of course it had changed her. How could it have not?

"I got the picture changed, of course," she went on, sorting through her bag for something else now, "when I turned sixteen and got hot."

_You've always been hot, Maria_, I thought, wishing all my thoughts were as carefree as that one.

"Dammit," she cursed. "Do you have a t-shirt I can borrow?"

A t-shirt? "Why?" I asked.

"I didn't bring anything really comfy to sleep in," she explained. "I mean . . . I guess I could just sleep naked." Her eyes took on a glint of mischief as she added, "Nothing you haven't seen before."

I didn't understand. Was she coming onto me? We were running away, having committed a murder. Did she seriously want me to sleep with her? I couldn't have gotten hard if I wanted to. There was no way.

"Hey," she said. "Did you leave your hormones at your house or what?"

Apparently I had. I threw my bag down on the floor on the opposite side of the room and sat down on the floor, leaning my head back against the wall. "I just don't feel like doing that tonight."

"Then toss me a t-shirt."

This girl . . . she was incredible in all the wrong ways.

I reached into my bag and found a grey t-shirt for her to put on. I threw it to her, she caught it, and she smiled at me. The next thing I knew, she was lifting her shirt over her head, unhooking her bra, and sitting across the room topless. I was struck by the memory of my hands on her breasts, of my tongue lapping up the sweat gathered in her cleavage as she rode me to climax. No, I hadn't left all my hormones at home.

I was relieved when she put my t-shirt on and covered herself up. She took off her pants then, and made it particularly obvious that she was taking off her panties, too. The knowledge that she was naked beneath my shirt was almost enough to make me hard. Almost.

"Don't be stupid," she said out of nowhere.

"What do you mean?" I asked her, confused.

"It's cold in here. You're not seriously gonna sleep all the way over there."

She was right. I wasn't. Partially because I was cold. Mostly because I wouldn't hate lying close to her. For those reason, I got up and walked over to her, then sat down and watched as she took a small, thin blanket with holes out of her bag. She moved in closer so that it would fit over both of us, then gave me a small pillow to rest my head on. She wasn't selfish, and for some reason that surprised me.

She laid her head atop my chest that night and fell asleep quickly, much to my envy. I lay awake, and when I felt her shivering next to me, I wrapped my arms around her and held her tight, trying my best to keep her warm.

Chapter 5

Jason and Julie Brandt

As much as I hated the house we stayed in that night, I was sort of unhappy to leave. It was run-down beyond belief, sure, but it was safe. I felt worried when we left the next day because I knew we were venturing back out into the rest of the world where houses were less run-down but also far less safe.

I don't know how Maria remained so calm. Maybe she was really freaking out inside and just hid it well. I guess I'll never know now.

"So why are we going to Santa Fe?" I asked her as I drove down a back highway that morning.

"There's this guy there."

Over the next few months, I would learn that there were a lot of these "this guy" guys.

"He runs a bar. And a video store. He's a loser," she elaborated. "But I got my Fake ID from him. He can get you one, too."

"So I'm trusting a loser with my fate?"

"Don't worry about it," she assured me. "No one's ever found out my ID's a fake. You'll be fine."

"Whatever."

"You just gotta pick a name."

I shrugged. I didn't really care. "Pick one for me."

"Okay." She turned in her seat and started to study me with her big green eyes. "You look like a Paul."

"Paul?" It wouldn't have been my first choice.

"What, you don't like that? Fine, fine. How about Samuel?"

I cringed, wondering where she was coming up with these names. Probably ex-boyfriends.

"Or maybe you could be Jason," she went on. "You don't look like a Jason, but it's a sexy name."

"So you don't think I'm sexy?" I asked her, slightly offended.

"I didn't say that."

I smiled a little, pleased to hear her say that.

"Be Jason," she said. "Okay?"

"Okay. And who are you?"

"Well, currently . . ." She glanced down at her fake ID. "Molly Stephenson. But I gotta change my name. I've been Molly for way too long now."

"Julie," I suggested. "Be Julie Brandt."

"Someone you know?"

"Ah, this girl I had a crush on in sixth grade. You're prettier than her, but . . ."

"Julie Brandt," she echoed. "I could go with that. _Jason._ Jason Brandt."

"Wait, are we . . . are we married?"

"In your dreams," she said. "No, we're siblings. The cops are gonna be looking for a couple, not a brother and a sister."

I had to hand it to her, she was cunning. She thought about things I hadn't given any consideration to.

When we got to Santa Fe, we found the guy she was looking for hanging around outside a video store smoking a cigarette. He grinned when he saw her and exclaimed, "Hey, Maria!"

"Not so loud, Nick. I don't want people to know I'm here," she said as she got out of the car. "How you been?"

"Lonely without you, baby."

She smiled and laughed a little. "Well, I'm here now."

"How long?"

"Just long enough to get you to do some ID work. Sorry."

"Damn."

When I got out of the car, Nick gave me a not so friendly look and said, "What's he doin' here?"

"Yeah, nice to meet you, too," I muttered.

"Is he your boyfriend?"

Maria locked eyes with me, and I thought she looked apologetic. Then she returned her gaze to Nick and said, "You know I'm not into that."

"Right." He grinned again, and I didn't know how she could stand to look at him. He was like a snake. "So what do you need me to do?"

"Change the name on my ID, make a new one for him. We wanna be Jason and Julie."

"Brandt," I added.

"Hitched?" Nick asked with a chuckle.

"No."

He started to laugh. "What the hell you guys doin'? This ain't no simple bar pass, is it?"

"Not exactly," Maria said. "Don't ask questions, okay?"

"Whatever," he said, tossing his cigarette down. "I don't really give a fuck. Just . . . pay up."

_Shit,_ I thought, having forgot about how much this might cost. We barely had enough money to pay for the cost of gas across a couple of states. How were we going to cover this?

I started to reach into my pocket and open my wallet, but it was unnecessary.

"It's okay. I got it," Maria assured me. She walked right up to Nick, pressed her body into his, and said quietly, "Remember how we did this last time? I gave you what you want, you gave me what I want. A trade."

"How could I forget?" He reached around her to cup her ass, and I felt myself becoming jealous.

"Let's just do it that way again," she said, "okay?"

He nodded, licking his lips. "Okay. Let's head back."

"Okay." She took one more glance at me as Nick led her into his store. I peered through the window and watched them walk into the adult movie room and shut the door. It was no secret what they were doing in there.

Even from outside, I could hear the sounds of the sex they were having. It didn't sound pleasurable at all. In fact, Maria sounded sort of distressed, in some pain, actually. The protective part of me wanted to run back there, rip that creep off of her, and carry her away from that place; but I knew she wouldn't be too happy about that. She was as independent as they came. I knew she wouldn't respond well to the old romantic hero act. Not that I was romantic. Or a hero.

Looking back, though, maybe that was exactly what she needed: for someone to save her.

She came outside a short time later looking roughed up and flushed. "Okay," she said. "I'm officially Julie Brandt. Now go be Jason."

I gazed at her, feeling sorry for her.

"What?" she asked.

"Why'd you do that?"

"Why are you so jealous?" she countered.

"I'm not."

"Of course you are."

"I just don't think you should have to do that."

"It's what I do, Michael," she told me, her voice full of undeniable regret. "It's what I've always done."

Why had I never done anything about the way her father abused her? Why had I, along with everyone else, just sat back and let it happen? It had wrecked her so badly.

I got my first fake ID that day, and I was Jason Brandt. We went back on the road, and this time neither one of us knew where we were going. We drove until the gas tank was almost empty, and somehow we ended up in Houston. I saw a faint smile on her face and thought that maybe, if it were possible, she was happy to be there.

Chapter 6

Unsatisfied

Maria sat up straighter, her eyes lighting up a bit, and asked me, "You ever been here?" as I parked the car in a parking lot outside a cheap Motel 8.

"To Houston?"

"Yeah."

I shook my head.

"Oh, it's great," she said. "There's so much to do."

I gave her a confused look, wondering how we were going to manage to do anything besides be secretive and inconspicuous.

"I mean, I realize this isn't a vacation or anything," she went on. "Still . . . we should stay for awhile. You know, or as long as we can."

I would have preferred being farther away from home, maybe Delaware or Massachusetts. No, Maine. No, _Canada._

We checked into the motel that afternoon, and all I wanted to do was lie back on the bed and sleep. But Maria had other ideas.

"We have to get jobs."

Yeah, I knew that, but I didn't want to do anything about it. I had a feeling it would be a frustrating process, too. I had worked before, but it wasn't as though I could list any references. I could just picture a prospective boss calling up Dick, my old boss at Taco Land, and asking, 'Tell me about Michael Guerin,' and Dick replying, 'Well, as it turns out, he's a murderer, so . . .'

Maria was way more motivated than me. "We drove by a place," she said. "I think I could get a job there."

"Where?" I hadn't been paying much attention to the road. I'd been too busy paying attention to my own misery.

"It was called The Kitten Club or something."

I raised an eyebrow at that. "The Kitten Club?" That could only mean one thing.

"Yeah, it looked like a strip club. I could do that."

I wouldn't hear of it. And even though I was in no position to tell her to do anything, I firmly responded, "No."

"Excuse me?"

"No, you're not doin' that."

"And why not?"

"Because it's beneath you."

She laughed at that and softly reminded him, "Nothing's beneath me. Not even murder."

I immediately tensed up when she said that. How could she even say the word? I didn't understand.

"You need to lighten up, Michael," she said, sitting down on the bed beside me. "You used to be a fun guy."

"You used to be a nice girl," I countered, remembering the first day I had saw her walking down the sidewalk, how sweet and innocent I thought that smile had been.

"No," she said. "I was never nice."

I know now how true that was. Maria DeLuca had not been allowed to be nice in her home. Or even happy. The only thing she had been allowed to be was afraid.

I felt afraid for her.

We got into an argument that night about whether or not she was going to go to The Kitten Club. It consisted mainly of her reminding me that I couldn't tell her what to do and me insisting that she could find a job somewhere else. She was stubborn as hell, but I managed to win that fight. Somehow. Dumb luck, maybe.

The next day after a breakfast of chips and Skittles from the vending machine outside the room, we walked around town until our feet hurt and we had to sit down. She tipped her sunglasses down and people-watched for a long time, absentmindedly commenting here and there, "Some people are really ugly."

I noticed all the people she said that about bore some kind of resemblance to her father, but I refrained from making the comment.

Our conversations became so random after day that I barely felt like talking.

"We need to make some money, Michael."

"You should dye your hair brown."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Well, do you wanna dye your hair blonde?"

"No."

"Exactly. Now think about money."

I tried to get a job, but I never had any luck. Whenever I would get called in for an interview, I tried to act as upbeat and positive as I could, but I was never very cheerful. How could I be?

"Why do you want this job, Mr. Guerin?"

I would just shrug.

"What makes you think you're right for the job?"

"Stuff."

"Are you always so talkative?"

And I'd just shrug again.

I could have tried harder, but I didn't want to. I didn't want to do anything. Except go home and hug my parents and tell them how sorry I was. Or maybe turn back time and never go over to Maria's house that one night. That would have been cool.

I was lying in bed one night, staring up at the ceiling and thinking, when the door to the motel room flew open and Maria burst inside. "I got a job!" she announced, a huge smile on her face.

I just nodded. That was good.

"Aren't you gonna ask where?"

"Sure."

"Lupe's. It's a restaurant. I'm a waitress."

"Not a stripper?"

She rolled her eyes. "No. Although I still think I'd make more money being a stripper . . ." She trailed off, and I could tell by the look in her eyes that she might still be set on doing both. "Whatever. We'll have some money now."

I just nodded again. We definitely needed money. We had been in Houston for the last five days, and we'd barely even gotten to eat anything because we were spending all the money we had paying for the room.

She climbed onto the bed, and before I knew it, she climbed onto me. She pressed her body in close and captured my lips in hers, kissing me eagerly. I had almost forgotten what this felt like. Or at least what it was supposed to feel like.

It was different now. It was a good kiss, one that convinced me to part my mouth and let it continue, but it wasn't the same as it had been before, before the murder. Kisses then had been full of passion, full of life, thrilling. Now . . . it was probably my fault, but it just didn't feel the same.

She ran her hands up under my shirt and grinned. "We should celebrate."

At that point, I barely knew the meaning of the word.

She brushed her lips against mine again, then rolled over onto her back, pulling me down atop her. I kissed her slowly, lazily, as she unbuttoned my shirt and pushed it off my shoulders. She grazed her fingernails over my spine and murmured, "Put your hands on me."

There was a time I would have already had my hands all over her, but they were reluctant now.

When I didn't do anything, she picked my hand up from where it rested beside her and placed it on one of her breasts, urging me to touch her through her clothes. I watched my hand closely, watching as my thumb flicked over her nipple and watched as it hardened beneath the fabric. She closed her eyes and smiled a little, moaning contentedly.

_How can you be content?_ I wondered, gazing down at her in confusion.

She never really was.

I touched her for a long time. She seemed to enjoy it for awhile, but then suddenly she reached down between us to unzip my pants. "I need you inside me," she came right out and said, releasing my manhood from the confines of my jeans and boxers. There was only one problem.

"Come on, Michael," she said, gripping me in her hand, trying to make me hard.

It wasn't her fault. She was a beautiful, willing girl, and somewhere deep down, I still really wanted her.

"Come on," she said again, sounding impatient.

It just wasn't working.

She started to look more and more fed up, and eventually she pushed me over onto my back again, slithered down my body, and took me into her mouth. It was impossible not to react to that, not to harden and become aroused. The girl obviously wanted sex, and I felt obligated to provide that for her.

But I didn't want to feel _obligated._ I wanted to feel feelings, the things I had felt for her that night in her bedroom. Lust. Love. Maybe, love. Before I could contemplate whether I had ever loved her or not, she crawled back up my body and sank down atop me, gasping out as she did so. "Uh . . ."

I let myself believe that this was exactly what I needed. Sex. A cure-all act. Sex.

It wasn't.

She rode me like a professional, leaning back to place her hands on the bed, tossing her head back so far that her long, sweat-soaked hair ticked my legs. Her breasts bounced before me as she slid up and down my cock, but I mostly just laid there, wondering why this was making me feel worse, not better.

She came resoundingly. I could feel her inner walls shuddering around me, and the pure emotion on her face was enough to make a man go crazy. She collapsed on top of me then, and I rolled over so that we were once again in missionary, and I thrust a few more times into her limp body to get myself off. I barely even felt myself cum. I barely managed to.

Afterward, I immediately disconnected from her and lay next to her, staring up at the ceiling again. She was breathing heavily, but I knew she was unsatisfied, too. She had to be. There was no way that act of desperation would have satisfied anyone.

Chapter 7

Don't Worry

We were able to stay in Houston for two weeks. Maria really seemed to like it there. She told me she liked her waitressing job, that the customers were all really friendly and thought 'Julie Brandt' was a wonderful waitress. I liked it a lot less. I stayed in the motel room every day for the majority of the day, watching whatever was on TV, waiting for Maria to come home so we could have some more meaningless sex.

It was _totally_ meaningless. She acted as though she really enjoyed it, but I don't think she did. She faked it a lot, and even though she tried not to be obvious about it . . .

She tried to talk to me, but I barely talked back. I must have been such a pain in the ass to live with. She kept telling me to lighten up.

"I'm worried about you, Michael," she said one night. We lay side by side beneath the sheets, naked and frustrated, for we'd both been unable to find release that time.

At first, I didn't respond, so she said it again. "Michael. Michael, I'm worried about you."

I was worried about myself. I had gotten to the point where I wasn't quite as worried about her anymore. She seemed to be handling life much better than I was.

"Don't," I told her.

"I can't help it," she admitted, reaching out to stroke my chest with the back of her hand. "You're my friend, you know. My only friend. I guess that makes you my best friend."

I smiled a little at the thought of that. Me and Maria DeLuca, best friends, partners in crime, and meaningless sex buddies. Things had been a lot easier when it had been all about me lusting after her and her trying her best to resist me.

"You're so quiet," she went on, rolling over onto her side to snuggle up next to me. "You never used to be quiet."

"Things change," I murmured. What an understatement.

"I know," she said, "but . . . you don't even like to touch me anymore."

I lowered my head to look at her, and she still took the breath right out of me. "It's not you," I promised. "It's just . . . what happened."

She shuddered and move in closer still, her skin warm against mine. "Just promise me you won't go anywhere, Michael," she practically whispered.

"Where would I go?"

"I don't know. But sometimes you act like you don't even really wanna be alive."

"I do," I promised, and that was the truth. I wanted to be alive, in love, maybe rich someday, maybe a father someday. I wanted to _not_ be an accessory to murder. I wanted to _not_ be on the run. I wanted all the things I couldn't have.

And yes, I _did_ still want her, contrary to what the dismal sex would indicate.

She didn't need to worry about me.

Chapter 8

Happy Birthday

The next day would mark the start of our third week in Houston. Unfortunately, our third week would never really happen.

It was my birthday. I was finally turning eighteen, and it should have been a happy day. It would have had I been home with my parents and my friends. I would have even liked to be in school, and that was saying something, because I hated school.

Maria tried her best to lift my spirits. She told me she had gotten me a birthday present and, even though, it wasn't very expensive or very much, I would really like it. I hoped I would.

She left for work that morning, and I stayed behind as usual. I was walking outside to get some food out of the vending machine when I heard voices around the corner.

"And you're absolutely positive you haven't seen them here or in the area?"

"No, sir, I have not."

Something inside of me bristled, and I knew that I was in trouble.

And if I was in trouble, that meant Maria was in trouble. And that was just unacceptable.

I let my candy fall from the vending machine and didn't bother to take it out. Instead, I peered around the corner just slightly in an effort to see who was there. I recognized the police officer. He was the one who had interrogated me right outside my house. It didn't take me long to notice the photographs in his hand, photos of myself and Maria.

"Should I be concerned, officer?" the old man talking to the cop asked.

"Well, just make sure you contact the police if you see them. They're on the run for murder."

My heart almost stopped, and all I could think was, _Happy birthday to me._

I darted back to my and Maria's room, slammed the door, and locked it into place. I yanked the curtains closed and ran one hand through my hair, terrified. If I got caught . . . if this was it . . .

I hurriedly packed up everything we had into our bags, forgetting about some of the more meaningless things like Maria's make-up and my pornos. I tried to call Maria at the restaurant to tell her what was happening, but I couldn't reach her.

"Dammit!" I swore, zipping up the last duffle bag. I swung both bags over my shoulders and scrambled for the door. My hand was on the doorknob and I was just about to open it when someone knocked.

Knock, knock. Knock, knock. Just like that, eager and insistent.

My heart was beating so fast. I think the only time it had ever beat faster was when I had seen Maria standing naked in the doorway to her house. I immobilized myself exactly where I was standing and tried to quell my panic. But it was out of control.

The knocking continued, followed by my the cop's unfriendly voice. "Police. Open up."

_Just wait it out,_ I told myself. _They'll think no one's here. It's not a big deal._

Who was I kidding? It was a _huge_ deal. On the other side of that door, a mere foot away from me was a man that could arrest me and throw me in jail for the rest of my life. And Maria . . . he could wait at the hotel until Maria came home. She wouldn't even suspect it. I wouldn't be able to warn her.

_Maria . . ._

It seemed like forever, but it was probably only a few minutes. Eventually, the officer stopped knocking on my door and moved down to the next door. I listened as he asked the same questions to the resident over there, making it sound as though Maria and I were horrible, murderous people.

Which, in all reality, we might have been.

While I waited, I put on a baseball cap to conceal my ridiculously obvious hair and a pair of sunglasses to hide my eyes. I cautiously glanced out the window every now and again, watching as the policeman systematically talked to everyone on the floor. Then, with a resigned sigh and slouched shoulders, he strode back down the balcony, got on the elevator, and rode it down. This elicited a relieved sigh from me, but I knew I was not out of the woods yet.

Stepping foot outside that room was one of the most terrifying things I had ever done. But I knew I had to do it. I walked outside with the bags, trying to be quiet, trying to be careful. Trying to be invisible. But being that I'm a 6'3 guy with an air of suspicion about him, it's hard to be invisible.

I took the stairs down to the first floor, too impatient to wait for the elevator to come back up again, and I surveyed the parking lot. Two police officers were standing by two police cars. If they spotted me, I was done for. No doubt about it.

I knew it was too risky to simply walk over to the car alone, so I waited until a group of people came out of the main lobby and headed out to the parking lot. I fell in with them, trying my best to disguise myself. They were all too wrapped up in their own conversations to notice me, and the cops didn't seem to notice me, either. I veered off from the group at last minute, hastily opened the door to the car Maria and I had 'borrowed' weeks ago, tossed the bags into the backseat, and drove off.

I drove to the restaurant where Maria worked carefully, cautiously. The last thing I needed was to get pulled over for a speeding ticket. Even though I felt like flooring it, getting the hell out of the town before anyone could stop me, I drove responsibly.

Trepidation coursed through my body all through the drive. I jerked the car to a stop in front of the restaurant, clamored out, and ran inside. She was there, waiting on a family of four, doing her job well. I think she actually really liked it there, and I felt bad for having to ruin it.

"Maria." I sounded so out of breath.

She spun to face me, seeming surprised to see me out of the motel room. "Michael," she said. She flicked her index finger against my sunglasses and asked, "What's with the disguise?"

I didn't even have to say anything. I just stared at her silently, and she registered it almost immediately.

"Where?" she asked.

"At the motel. We have to leave now."

She glanced around the restaurant, down at the order pad in her hand, and then back up at me. I heard her whimper, "No," but she was smart enough to know what had to be done.

She set the order pad down on the table and apologized to the family. "I'm so sorry." And with that, we fled from the restaurant. Literally fled.

We drove aimlessly, no idea where we were going. Maria looked really sad, and she hardly spoke. When she did, it was only to say, "At least you were able to pack our stuff."

"Yeah," I agreed. "I left your make-up." I turned to her and assured her, "You don't need it, though."

"I guess not."

I sighed heavily and kept driving.

The weather got bad that night, wherever we were. It started pouring down rain, and I had to pull the car over because I couldn't see the road. One of the headlights on the front of the car was busted. That didn't help.

"Why'd you stop?" she asked me.

"I can't see the road. It's raining too hard."

She squinted her eyes as she peered out the windshield and proclaimed, "I can see. I'll drive."

"Do you even know _how_ to drive?"

She shrugged. "More or less."

I chuckled. "Yeah, I think we'll just stay parked for awhile."

She didn't argue, though it was obvious she wanted to.

We sat together in silence for a few minutes, listening to the radio and the rain, and then she said, "I'm tired."

"You can sleep," I said, opening up my arms for her. "Here."

She met my eyes for a moment, and I saw how sad she was. Yes, she tried to be happy for me. She tried to be happy at work. But she wasn't happy.

She leaned over and lay her head on my shoulder. I smoothed my hand up and down her arm, noticing how cold she was. "I'll keep driving after it lets up," I told her.

"Okay," she said simply, sounding _very_ tired. "Michael?"

"Yeah?"

"You know how I said I had a present for you?"

"Yeah."

She sighed. "I was actually gonna buy it for you after work today, after I raked in a few more tips."

"That's okay," I assured her.

"It was the new Metallica CD," she said. "I know you like Metallica."

Yeah, I did, but it wouldn't have mattered. I was such a wreck, even the best music in the world couldn't help me.

"Happy birthday, Michael," she murmured as she fell asleep.

It rained all night, and I couldn't sleep. So I just stayed awake and listened to her breathe.

I remember that sound.

Chapter 9

Screwed Up

Maria and I drove for so many days. I can't even remember how many. They were so similar, they all just seemed to blend together. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Whatever.

We ended up in Dover, Delaware, a random enough town, big enough for us to hopefully blend in. I kept trying to convince Maria to dye her hair brown. The blonde was just so recognizable. But she was so stubborn.

"No," she would say. "Blondes have more fun."

And to that, I would always counter, "And how much fun do you have?"

Fun really wasn't an option for us.

During our first week in Dover, I couldn't help but notice how quiet Maria was. She was almost quieter than me. Between the two of us, we must have been the least talkative people on the planet. Whenever we did talk, it was just about the hair stuff.

I thought maybe she just missed Houston, missed her job. Something like that. It wasn't until she was rummaging around in her purse for the only tube of lip gloss she had left and a pregnancy test dropped out that I realized what was really on her mind.

I reached down onto the floor of the hotel room and picked up the small box, praying that this was a nightmare. I looked up at her, confused, and waited for her to explain.

Tears immediately sprung to her eyes, but she pushed them away and took the test back from me. She didn't say anything. I sat there in disbelief. How could she not say anything?

"Maria." There was such a sound of pleading in my voice. I had to know what was going on.

She stuffed the test back into her purse and simply said, "I'm late."

My mind raced. We'd had a lot of sex. Not great sex, but sex nonetheless. I'd worn a condom . . . sometimes.

"How late?" I asked.

She shrugged and mumbled. "Two weeks."

Two weeks. That didn't sound like such a huge deal. It was better than three or four.

My attempts at making myself feel better were truly pathetic. Two weeks was two weeks. "Is that unusual?" I asked her, trying to sound as calm as I could.

"Yeah." She looked terrified. Completely. And I didn't blame her.

I wanted to just do something drastic, like jump off the railing of our third floor balcony and see what happened, but I forced myself to be a good boyfriend. Even though I wasn't sure if I was her boyfriend.

Even though this was a disaster.

"Okay," I said. "Okay, but we don't know for sure. I mean, you haven't taken the test yet."

"No."

"And . . . it's probably nothing. You're on the pill."

"Whatever, Michael," was all she said as she went into the bathroom and shut the door.

Waiting was agony. Of course, it was only a few short minutes, but it felt like many long hours. I never moved from where I was sitting on the bed. I just sat there, staring at the plain white wall in front of me, wondering which was worse, waiting to see if I was going to be an accessory to murder _and_ a father or just barely dodging that cop back in Houston.

This was worse.

My future began to flash before my eyes as I sat there, or what _might_ be my future if that test was positive. Me and Maria, living on the run, a baby in our arms. It was a cute baby, but it was small because we couldn't afford to feed it properly. And it was always crying because we were never settled down. It didn't have a crib to sleep in at night. It didn't have a home. It would grow older someday and ask us why we never stayed in one town too long, why normal kids went to school, why this and why that.

I would have tried my best to be a good dad, hopefully half as good as my dad had been to me. I would have done everything in my power to make sure my son didn't turn out like me.

Maria stayed in the bathroom for a long time. That wasn't a good sign. And even though I didn't know whether she wanted me around or not, I had to know. So I got up, noting how shaky my legs were, and nervously pushed open the bathroom door. She was sitting on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest, completely still. Her eyes were wide, but she wasn't crying. I couldn't tell by looking at her what the verdict was.

"So?" I asked.

"I'm not pregnant."

I had never felt so relieved in my entire life. Maria and I were in no way ready to have a kid. Our lifestyle, just us in general . . . it would have been horrible. And the two of us as parents . . . we wouldn't have been good parents.

"You know, I forgot to take the pill one night a couple weeks ago. My period schedule probably just got out of whack. I'm screwed up," she said. "I'm so screwed up."

She really was. But then again, so was I.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" I asked. "Or-"

"No, I don't wanna talk about it," she said, pushing herself to her feet. She shoved past me and stalked out of the room. She was a mess of emotions. Really.

She was a mess. But beautiful.

She stayed out for hours. I'm not sure where she went. But when she came back home around midnight, she had a wad of twenty dollar bills in her hand, so I could only assume she paid a visit to a strip club, danced a little. I didn't say anything, but I didn't like it. I didn't want her to have to do that.

"Maria," I said, solely for the sake of saying her name.

"Michael, don't," she said sharply.

I felt in that moment that my whole life revolved around that word. _Don't._ Don't talk. Don't ask questions. Don't feel. Don't be afraid, but don't get comfortable either. Don't run too fast. Don't run too slow. Just don't do anything.

I just wanted to be able to do _something_, and I knew exactly what. I wanted to love her. That was all I wanted to do.

She crawled into bed beside me that night but lay a good foot away from me, her back facing towards me. I heard her sigh and once again mutter under her breath as she drifted off to sleep, "I'm _so_ screwed up."

Chapter 10

Are You Happy?

We didn't have any more pregnancy scares after that, but we did have a few near run-ins with the police. We were quite evasive, though, and always managed to sneak away.

After Dover, it was Chicago. And then Omaha. And then all the way out to Seattle. The farther we traveled, the more distant and sullen Maria became. We stopped having sex altogether. It just seemed like a waste of time. Things got so bad between us that we went an entire day without speaking. Well, _almost_ an entire day.

It was Christmas Eve. We lay in bed together, our backs facing each other. I was just about to fall asleep when I heard her choke out, "Michael?"

I didn't say anything.

"Michael," she said again.

"Yeah."

She hesitated a moment before asking, "Are you happy?"

I hadn't been happy for a long time. I hadn't been happy since we'd been up in her bedroom back home, wrapped in each other's arms, doing dirty things the way only teenagers could do them, oblivious to the fact that her father would be home any minute. "No," I replied honestly.

"Neither am I," she admitted. "It's not your fault, though."

I never thought it was. Happiness . . . I had resigned myself to the fact that it would be unattainable for us. We had killed a man. We didn't deserve to be happy.

Well, she did. In my mind, Maria DeLuca deserved everything. But I felt as though I could give her nothing.

Christmas day was . . . nothing. It used to be my favorite holiday. But now there was no tree, no presents, no family . . . just nothing.

I started feeling really bad that day, worse than I'd felt since we'd started our lives on the run. If Maria noticed it, she didn't say anything. She just lay on the bed watching _It's a Wonderful Life_ over and over again as if to convince herself that it _was_ a wonderful life.

I went outside and stood out on the balcony outside our motel room, thinking about how much I hated living in a motel, how I hated being able to cram all of my possessions into one small bag, how I hated not having the connection with Maria we'd had a couple of months ago. I hated everything.

I just hated everything.

Except her.

I didn't know what to do, but I knew I had to do something. I couldn't live the rest of my life like this. I couldn't go day in and day out looking over my shoulder, wondering if I was going to get caught, working my way from job to meaningless job, never having a home, never having a family, never having anything at all.

"_You should probably leave soon."_

"_Why? Is your dad gonna be back?"_

The words resounded in my head over and over again, driving me crazy.

"_Is your dad gonna be back?"_

Not anymore.

"_Is your dad gonna be back?"_

He was too busy being dead.

"_Michael?"_

I closed my eyes and whispered her name. "Maria." I didn't want to leave her alone, but I couldn't go on like this.

"Michael?"

It took me a moment to realize that her voice wasn't just a figment of my imagination. She was actually speaking to me.

I spun around and saw her standing in the doorway, looking as exhausted as I've ever seen her.

I took a deep breath and prepared myself for what I had to do. "Let's go inside," I said, gesturing into the room.

She took a step back, and I walked past her. I turned off the TV, waited a moment, then blurted it out, figuring that I shouldn't prolong it.

"I'm gonna turn myself in."

Her reaction was simple, stunned silence. And then . . . "What?"

I nodded my head, determined.

"Turn yourself in?" she echoed. "But . . . Michael, that's so _stupid_."

"No, it's the right thing to do."

She marched in front of me and gazed up at me with a sudden passion in her eyes, one that had been missing for a long time. "If you turn yourself in now, you'll go to jail for the rest of your life."

"And if I don't, I'll be on the run for the rest of my life," I reminded her. "Besides . . . maybe it won't be forever. I didn't actually . . ." I trailed off because I didn't want to finish the sentence.

But she wouldn't let me off that easily. She never would. "What?" she demanded. "You didn't _actually_ kill him? Is that what you're saying?"

"Well, it's true."

"Oh, right, so I'm the big, bad murderer, and you're just . . . what? My knight in shining armor?"

"You don't have a knight in shining armor."

"And you don't have me!" she shouted, placing her hands on my chest and shoving me backwards. "I never felt anything for you, Michael!"

I hoped she didn't mean that.

"I never did!" she shouted, pushing me again. The forcefulness of her words made me believe that she was lying. "I can't believe you!" she shrieked. "You're gonna go tell them what I did! You're gonna make it sound like it's all my fault!"

She had to know that I would never have done that. "Maria-"

"Because it is!" She choked out one giant sob, one that was so powerful that it caused her to fall to her knees, crying harder than I'd ever heard her cry before, crying harder than she had even cried the night of the murder. "It's _all_ my fault!" she wailed. "But he hurt me so much, and I just wanted it to stop." She shook her head, her face contorted in pain. "I just wanted it to _stop!_"

I should have done something. Years ago, I should have done something. We _all_ should have done something, or at least _tried_. Nothing was Maria's fault. The blame rested on the shoulders of those of us who had known what was going on behind the closed doors of the DeLuca household and chose to do nothing about it.

It was _my_ fault.

In the midst of her breakdown, I reached down to touch her shoulder, but she jerked away and screamed, "Don't touch me! You're leaving me!"

It wasn't her I was leaving. It was the lifestyle.

She scrambled to her feet, wiping the tears from her cheeks furiously, but fresh ones just kept falling. "I hate you!" she shouted, glaring at me before shoving past me, heading for the door.

But that was the very unbelievable moment I realized I _loved_ her, so I couldn't let her go.

I grabbed onto her arm and pulled her back towards me. She spun in my arms, and I crashed my lips down onto hers, feeling alive the instant we kissed, feeling alive for the first time in months. My passion roared into her; her passion ricocheted right back. I picked her up in my arms, kissing her hungrily, and hurled the two of us down atop the bed. My hands roamed over her body. I felt as though I hadn't touched her in . . . forever. And the taste of her skin as I kissed my way down her cheek to her neck . . . I was intoxicated by her.

This was different. Different than what we had been doing, different the meaningless, unsatisfying sex.

This was everything.

She shuddered beneath me. I had never ever felt one person shake so much. Her crying ceased, but there were still tear tracks on her face. I tried my best to kiss them away.

"Michael . . ." Her voice was quiet, but full of emotion.

I undressed us both simultaneously, needing to feel her skin against mine. The mere contact was the most sensational thing I had ever experienced.

"Michael . . ."

I could hear it in her voice, the desperate desire.

"Michael . . ."

To be wanted.

"Michael . . ."

To be loved.

"Make love to me," she whispered as I readied myself between her beautiful, awaiting thighs. "Please."

I wasn't sure I knew the difference. What distinguished making love from just regular sex? Was it about moving slower? Being gentler?

I gazed down at her, down into her pleading green eyes, and it dawned on me what I had to do to make love to her. I had to treat her like she was my whole world. Because she was.

Always had been.

I entered her slowly, reveling in the sensation of every inch of her, the warmth that seeped through my body as she sheathed me, clutched me. I suddenly felt as though this was my first time being with Maria DeLuca, _really_ being with her. Everything felt new. And amazing.

Her shaking subsided upon penetration, but she still clung to me, her hands slipping due to the sweat on my back. She would close her eyes and then open them again moments later to stare straight into mine.

I felt high. Better than high. In love. I was in love with that girl, and I finally knew it.

I finally knew it.

I leaned forward and pressed the side of my face against hers, moving neither slowly nor quickly inside of her, listening to the tiny sounds that escaped her throat. She didn't say words. There was just moaning and breathing and the occasional groan or two. Incredible sounds, all of them.

I lifted my head and gazed down into her eyes again, awe-struck. She was so dynamic. Everything about her, even after everything she'd been through . . . she was amazing. She was a complete disaster, a sinful temptation, and someone I would do anything for. I couldn't get enough of her. I just _couldn't_ get enough of her.

We brushed our lips together, not really kissing, just mixing breath. I felt her stomach quiver beneath me as she pressed her hips up to meet mine, and I knew she was close.

Our bodies undulated one last time, and we came together, each of us holding onto the other for dear life.

"_Are you happy?"_ Her question seeped its way back into my mind as I spooned up behind her that night, but my answer was different this time.

I was. With her in my arms. With her.

That was the best night of my life.

Chapter 11

Someday

I woke up with her still wrapped in my arms. She felt so small.

I didn't want to wake her up, but I couldn't resist smoothing my hand down her arm and pressing a kiss to her shoulder. And then another kiss. And then another. I moved her hair to one side and kissed the back of her neck, causing her to moan. She rolled over in my arms then and tangled herself around me, hugging me, holding onto me tight. I hugged her back, and we just lay together like that for at least an hour, embracing each other. I had never felt so peaceful.

She was still asleep when I realized I had to get up and go to work. I had gotten a job at a department store a few days ago. It wasn't fun, but it paid for motel rooms.

I kissed her forehead and gently untangled her frame from mine. I set her arms down beside her and carefully crawled out of bed, wishing I didn't have to go. Part of me entertained the idea of calling in sick, spending the day with her, but I didn't do that.

I wish I had.

I got up and took a quick shower, brushed my teeth, got dressed, did everything the way I usually did it. I put on my work clothes, grabbed the car keys, and stopped to stare at her as I headed for the door.

Her blonde hair, her full lips, her smooth skin . . .

Things were going to be different between us now. I just knew it. I loved her, and it really seemed like she loved me, in her own quiet way. So there was no reason why we couldn't be happy together. No reason.

Reluctantly, I turned and opened the door.

"Michael?"

But when she said my name, I spun back. She was awake, her eyes wide, gazing straight into mine.

"Hey," I said. "Sorry, I gotta go to work."

"I know." Her voice was quiet. I had to strain to hear her. "I just wanted to say . . ." She paused for a long moment, and she looked as if she were contemplating something, but I was too awe-struck by her beauty to think much of it. And then she said it.

"Goodbye."

I smiled at her, wanting to say 'I love you.' I'd never told her before, and I suspected those were three words she had never heard at all. From anyone. But for some reason, I didn't. Not because I was scared. Not because I didn't want to. Just because . . . I didn't.

Work that day was lively. Day after Christmas and all. I must have screwed up so many transactions, because my head was in the clouds. One of my coworkers, Nathan, even realized it and called me on it.

"Guerin, what's up? You actually look happy."

"I am," I said as I climbed up on the ladder to restock the shelves.

"Why? You get laid last night?"

I shook my head. "It was more than that."

"How so?"

I couldn't explain it, especially not to a guy I'd only spoken to on a few occasions. "It was just more."

I don't think I'll ever truly be able to grasp that night's significance to me. It had been so many things. Clarity. Passion. Love. Euphoria.

_Maria._

I didn't waste any time getting back home to her. I was so excited to see her face.

"Maria," I said when I opened the door to the room. The bathroom door was closed. I assumed she was in there. "Guess what?" I said, peeling off my work shirt. "I'm not turning myself in. I failed to mention that this morning." I smiled. "I'm not leaving you, okay? I promise." I stepped out of my shoes and found a way to say what I had neglected to when we'd said goodbye that morning. "'Cause I love you, Maria. I really do."

I waited a moment for some kind of response, but there was no sound from the bathroom. The door didn't open.

"We'll be alright if we're together," I kept on. "I promise, I won't let anything happen to you."

Nothing.

I thought it was strange, strange that she wasn't talking. "Maria, I love you."

Still, nothing. How could her response to that declaration be silence?

I stared at the closed door, confused. "Maria?" Maybe she had left. Maybe she was out looking for a job. She hadn't found one yet here in Seattle, and I know that was really bothering her.

I inched my way towards the bathroom, and a feeling of dread settled itself in my stomach. I didn't understand it at the time. I do now.

"Maria?" When I opened the door, the sight that awaited me almost stopped my heart. Actually, I think it did.

She was lying on the floor, sprawled out, not moving, her vacant eyes staring up at the ceiling. At first, I didn't register what I was seeing, but then I saw the empty bottle of pills in her hand, and I did.

I just stood there for a moment, unable to think, unable to move. Unable to do anything.

Her eyes . . . once so full of life . . . they were empty now. Dead.

She was dead?

"No," I said, refusing to accept it. I fell down beside her and picked her up in my arms. "Maria! _Maria!_" I smoothed my hands over her hair and her face as my tears began to fall, and I prayed for her to do something, to blink or to start breathing. Something. Anything.

She didn't do anything.

She _was_ dead.

"No!" I wailed, clutching her to my chest. I buried my face in her hair and sobbed, feeling my heart break over and over again. Her body was so cold.

"Maria!" I knew she couldn't hear me. "_Maria . . ._"

I called 911, of course, but it was obvious that she had been dead for hours. The police came and examined the crime scene, confirming on the spot that it was a suicide. I stood there, watching as they placed her cold, lifeless body into a body bag and zipped her up. Flashes of memory seeped into my brain, all of Maria.

Watching Maria at school, thinking how beautiful she was, smiling when she smiled, listening to her laugh. Maria, standing in the doorway to her house that fateful night, completely naked, completely amazing. Kissing Maria. Touching Maria. Making love to Maria DeLuca.

I was in a state of shock when the investigator tried to ask me questions.

"What time did you find her?"

"Uh, about an hour ago."

"How did you find her?"

"Just . . . dead."

I answered the questions they asked me, all the while remembering Maria, the way her eyes would connect with mine and we would stare right into each other. Maybe we didn't have some great, romantic love story, but I _had_ loved her.

"And what's your name?" the investigator asked me once he had gotten the answers he need. "Just for the record."

"Jason-" I stopped myself. Jason Brandt was the name I had grown so accustomed to giving when asked this, but it wasn't my name. Never had been. And now Julie Brandt was gone, so what was the point?

"Actually, my name's Michael Guerin," I amended honestly. "I'm wanted for murder."

So that was it. That was the day I turned myself in. I apologize for the sudden abruptness of the ending to this darkened saga, but I can barely write anymore. It hurts.

I sit in a jail cell now, writing this story because I honestly have nothing better to do. And because she is still the only thing I think about.

I'll have a lot of time to think now. Had Maria and I confessed to what we had done right from the start, nothing would have happened to me. She might have been tried for the crime, but being that her father had violated her for years and years, the murder would have been ruled self-defense. We might have been able to live semi-normal lives, maybe have a relationship, maybe be together for a long time. But we made the wrong choice. We made the stupid choice. I know that now. Because I was a willing accessory to the crime, because I helped her cover it up and ran away from the consequences, I'll be in jail for a long, long time. Twenty-five years, probably. Maybe even thirty. It's what I deserve, and I've accepted it.

Hell, I'd stay locked up forever if it meant Maria could live again.

I spend a lot of time wondering what I could have done differently. My biggest regret is not telling her that I loved her when I got the chance. It probably wouldn't have stopped her from taking her own life, but maybe it would have made her think twice. And at least that way, she would have known. She would have _known_. She would have known somebody loved her more than life itself.

I don't know if she ever loved me. I like to think she did. There was just something about her, something that couldn't handle the world anymore. I'm not mad at her. I'm not even disappointed. I try not to blame myself, even though it's an easy thing to do. Suicide is a thing of determination. I don't think all the love in the world could have stopped her.

Still, there's that little what-if. What if I'd been able to save her? What if I had saved her from the start?

I just miss her. It's as simple as that. I don't know where she is now, what she's doing, how she's feeling; but I hope she's happy. I hope she's at peace. And I hope I'll be able to see her again someday.

I will. I'll make sure of it.

THE END


End file.
